


no harm, no foul

by rynleaf



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Casefic (sort of), F/M, Getting Together, Implied Violence, Leverage AU, M/M, Modern Thedas, Multi, art thieves, implied pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-13
Updated: 2019-11-13
Packaged: 2021-01-30 05:09:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21422710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rynleaf/pseuds/rynleaf
Summary: In which Alistair tries to catch a pair of thieves, and finds himself seduced instead.On Alistair’s desk, pinned to the case file grudgingly titled ‘The Magpie Thefts’, there is a cut-out newspaper article. A blue sticky-note with elegant, cursive handwriting says: For you.
Relationships: Alistair/Zevran Arainai/Female Warden, OC/OC
Comments: 6
Kudos: 40





	no harm, no foul

**Author's Note:**

> This is a Leverage AU only in that I took the premise of vigilante art thieves and ran with it, fast, in the direction of ot3 romance. The OC-s featured are all mine, most of them wardens and some not, and I love them all greatly. 
> 
> Brief warning for cursing.
> 
> Enjoy!

It’s a fucking fever dream. Alistair cannot believe it. 

The couple is gorgeous—glamorous even, he thinks, her in a tapering dress and him in a suit that hugs everything enough to make heads turn in their direction. They are standing in front of the Livatani, leaning into each other under the soft light: the sprawling brushstrokes build a city of impossible means on the canvas, and the whole scene makes Alistair wish fervently for a modicum of talent for artistic expression. 

He catches that thought, examines it from several different angles, then decides he needs a drink. Fast. 

“Alistair,” Hist says by his elbow, and he looks down at his partner with a sigh. With her sober dress and his worn suit, they could just as well be screaming: _ Police! Beware! _

_ You have to make this fast, _ Duncan says with a wry smile. _ Tonight. Election season is coming. _

By which he means Commissioner Guerrin is stepping on balls, and the department is running out of time. 

“I see them,” Alistair says. A server glides past with a tray of champagne flutes and he takes one, squirming a little at Hist’s disapproving frown. “Come on, I’m blending in.” 

“We’re on duty,” she mutters under her breath. 

“We can at least pretend to be here for the opening,” Alistair turns to examine a painting to his left, but doesn’t bring the glass to his mouth—despite his churning insides, he does, in fact, know better. Him and alcohol have never been the best of friends on a good day. Champagne and nerves is arguably an even worse combination. 

Still, he thinks as he watches their marks from the corner of his eye, temptation is _ temptation. _

“I gotta check the perimeter,” Hist says, and claps him on the elbow. “Try not to get in trouble, yeah?”

Subtle, Alistair thinks, watching her disappear into the crowd of glittering socialites. He picks out the others easily enough: Nathaniel standing by the hors d'oeuvres looking uncomfortable in his server’s uniform, Ariste with their back against the gallery’s far wall, seemingly absorbed in their phone. Rivka is walking from exhibit to exhibit slowly, as if each is just as absorbing as the next. 

His team. The best of the best. 

_ You’ll get them this time, _ Duncan says just before they all scramble into the van. 

Alistair has his doubts. 

He is stepping closer to the painting--an original Amell, abstract vegetation framing young women in mages’ robes--when a hand touches his elbow, and a pleasantly accented voice says:

“Good evening, Inspector.”

Alistair almost drops his champagne. Zevran Arainai, art thief, offers him a smile. 

“Y—you,” Alistair says, then quickly reminds himself that he is supposed to be _ undercover, _for Andraste’s sake, there are people watching, and the relative attractiveness of the man’s cheekbones mean absolutely nothing in light of his impressive rep sheet. 

“Nice evening we’re having, yes? You and your friends enjoying yourselves?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Alistair says, and immediately wants to smack himself. Zevran chuckles. 

“You underestimate me.”

Undercover, of course. The whole thing was probably straight out of the window the minute they walked in. Under-resourced, understaffed...

Fucked, really. 

Alistair closes his eyes for a second and takes a deep breath. “I certainly don’t.”

“Charming as always, dear Inspector,” the thief says, catching him lightly by the elbow and leading him toward the tables where the food is laid out. “The catering is excellent tonight, is it not? Have you tried the cheese pastries? They make them in this delectable Orlesian bakery down on Fallow Lane, I’m sure you’ve heard of it.”

“What are you doing?” Alistair asks helplessly as Zevran offers him a pastry on a small cocktail napkin. He takes it. 

“Making conversation with a handsome man, of course,” Zevran says, and reaches out to brush a crumb off his suit lapel.

“Oh, that is hilarious.” 

“Is it?” 

“Where is your wife?” Alistair asks instead of a reply, and hates that his voice sounds _ husky _. Zevran cocks his head to the side. It is, unfortunately, very charming.

“Powdering her nose. You know women.” 

From the corner of his eye, Alistair sees movement as Nathaniel disappears down the corridor leading toward the ladies’ room. 

Judging by the way Zevran runs his fingers under his suit lapel exactly where the microphone wire lies, it is unlikely that he will find anything incriminating. 

_ Blast it. _

“I’m sure she’d be very impressed with you right now,” Alistair says instead of groaning out loud, and congratulates himself at this exemplary display of self-restraint. 

“You think I don’t have permission?” Zevran leans in closer, looking up through his lashes in a way that is all manners of distracting. It’s basically torture. The luke-warm champagne flute in his hand looks more tempting by the minute. 

“I don’t enjoy your games very much,” Alistair says. Zevran steps back, and his expression is almost serious: the hint of a smile, a deliberate sweep of dark lashes. His eyes crinkle at the corners. A strand of blonde hair falls from behind his ear to curl around his tattooed cheekbone. 

“Oh, Inspector. I very much think you do.”

“Incredible,” Hist mutters through his earpiece, and Alistair considers the chances of spontaneously setting himself on fire. 

“I like knowing my hunters,” Zevran continues, “Detective Inspector Theirin, Department of Fraud and Art Thievery.”

“That’s not what payroll calls it,” Alistair says. 

“Of course, they don’t. Administrators never has any sense of humour.”

Alistair is painfully aware of how close they stand, the thief’s right hand on his shoulder, resting so that his thumb pushes against his throat. His pulse is insistently fast. Zevran swipes his thumb against the side of his neck, and Alistair leans into it without thinking.

Shit. _ Shit. _

“Boss,” Ariste hisses through Alistair’s earpiece and he jerks away, leaving Zevran’s hand hanging mid-air. He doesn’t seem offended. 

If the way he’s angling his body is any indication, he is thinking completely different kinds of thoughts, and oh _ Maker _ is Alistair in deep shit. 

“I must go,” Zevran says. “Things to do, places to be.”

“Wait,” Alistair calls after him. 

“Until next time, Inspector.”

Zevran steps back, grinning as he turns, then slips back into the crowd. 

“All units,” Alistair says into his mic, “we have movement. I repeat, we have movement.”

But by the time he elbows his way through Denerim’s best and brightest, Zevran is long gone and his wife is nowhere to be seen either. Alistair scans the crowd for a flash of red, and comes up empty. 

“Hist,” he urges his partner. 

“All artifacts accounted for,” Hist says through his earpiece, and Alistair heaves a relieved sigh. 

In that exact moment, a tearful young woman bursts into the room to scream: 

“My necklace is gone! Somebody stole my necklace!”

-

“You were supposed to _ catch them _in the act,” the Commissioner says, and Alistair tries not to hunch. Duncan weathers the storm calmly, but Commissioner Guerrin has always put Alistair on edge: he’s a broad man with eyes that seems incapable of smiling, a voice that is made for cutting, and a calculating temper. His calculations at the moment run toward re-appointment, and jewellery theft right under the nose of the Denerim Police Department doesn’t exactly encourage trust in the eyes of Ferelden’s elite. 

“Guerrin will tear you a new one,” Hist says to him in the van, thoroughly unsympathetic. Alistair groans into his paperwork. 

“I can’t believe you let Arainai flirt with you,” Nathaniel adds, and Ariste smothers a laugh. Badly. 

“I can’t believe it _ worked.” _

So here Alistair is, in the top floor office of a building with one side all glass, fearing for his life only half-metaphorically. 

“The resources, sir--,” he tries to say when the tirade comes to a lull, and the look he receives for his trouble has the rest of the sentence stuck in his throat. 

“Your job is to catch art thieves,” Guerrin says almost kindly, which is somehow _ worse _, “not watch them graduate to jewellery theft.”

“Technically, sir--”

“Inspector Theirin. If you don’t have anything productive to say, please stay quiet.”

“We have a file,” Alistair tries again, “we have evidence, we have event logs, a timeline--”

“Is it enough for an arrest?”

“Well… not exactly?”

“So what you’re saying is that you’ve been following a group of notorious criminals for, let’s see, how long exactly?”

“Two years, sir,” Alistair mutters.

“Two years. And you have nothing to show for it. Congratulations on your file, Inspector Theirin. I’m very impressed.”

Alistair swallows and stares at the carpet. Antivan. Swirling designs, somewhat similar to the tattoo that follows Zevran Arainai’s cheekbone, and the memory of it being inches from his face is so unhelpful in this moment, he wants to scream. 

“All right, then,” Commissioner Guerrin says. “Miss Elonie has filed an official report. You will go to her house tomorrow at half past ten in the morning, take her statement. Then you will gather evidence, arrest these criminals, and put them in prison for a very, very long time. How does that sound?”

“We will do what we can,” Duncan says calmly. Guerrin tightens his hands on the back of his chair. 

“Excellent. Dismissed.”

Alistair unlocks his phone on the elevator ride down, and groans. 

The first headline reads: _ The Magpies Strike Again! Jewellery Theft on Opening Night! _

“That was unpleasant,” Duncan says conversationally. 

“I’ve always admired your ability to overstate, sir,” Alistair mutters and digs his fingers into his scalp, scrolling down the article. 

“CCTV footage should be with your team by now,” Duncan adds. “I expect you to be thorough.”

“I’m always thorough.”

“I know you’re good at your job, Alistair.”

“Except this case,” Alistair mutters, and reads over the paragraph detailing the incompetence of the on-site police taskforce one more time. The urge to lie down is almost overwhelming. 

Duncan pats his shoulder in a fatherly gesture. They don’t say another word until they reach the precinct. 

On Alistair’s desk, pinned to the case file grudgingly titled _ ‘The Magpie Thefts’, _ there is a cut-out newspaper article. A blue sticky-note with elegant, cursive handwriting says: _ For you. _

Alistair picks the note up with shaking hands and turns around. 

“Have you seen who dropped these off?”

Rivka looks up from behind her pile of paperwork.

“Dropped what off?” 

-

**Denerim Heiress Involved in Illegal Business Dealings?** _  
_

_ Dimitra Julianna Elonie, daughter of Howard Elonie Sr. and Josefina Julianna Lokasta has been found to invest her independent fortune into questionable business ventures in the past. She has never faced criminal charges, whether due to her innocence or her family’s influence, it is difficult to comment upon. _

_ The latest scheme, chaired by the esteemed lady’s younger brother Erneste, appears to be a non-profit housing organisation. This charitable business invests into houses built on Blighted land, with the mission to restore those homes to the families that had to be evacuated during the 6:54 crisis. Why is it then, that more people seem to lose their houses after being involved with Miss and Mister Elonie’s organisation, than with any other charity? _

_ Alleged victims of fraud have come forward, but according to independent experts, the company has not committed anything technically illegal. Whether victims will seek aid from the police, remains to be seen. _

L. Gillam, 6:59 Stoneheart._  
_

  
  


-

“There,” Rivka hits pause, and points a finger at the screen where a grainy figure is shown halfway through opening a door. Even in black and white, Alistair recognises the cut of the dress and that strong profile: Iraine Surana, thief. 

“You can hardly arrest someone over going to the bathroom,” Ariste points out.

“Keep going,” Alistair says. The footage plays on, and a couple of minutes later they see Surana exit the same way she entered. She disappears out of view in the direction of the party. 

“This must have been where she swiped it,” Rivka says, leaning in. Her horns cover some of the view, but Alistair knows there is nothing to see there what he hasn’t already pored over five times--he leans back in his desk chair, and rubs his eyes. 

“Why would she swipe it in the fucking _ bathroom,” _Hist snaps, again. Rivka squints at the screen. 

“Where else would she have done it? The only place where aren’t any cameras is the _ fucking bathroom.” _

“You know what _ is _ in a bathroom however? Mirrors! Make-up! Fixing your updo, which you’d know if you ever did something about that,” Hist points at Rivka’s untamed mop of curls, and Rivka hisses back. 

“Ladies, please,” Nathaniel interjects. 

“Excuse me,” Hist snaps. Nathaniel rolls his eyes and takes a sip of coffee. 

“It probably wasn’t the bathroom,” Alistair says slowly. The four of them turn toward him. “Remember what Arainai said? Women, powdering their noses?”

“How could I forget,” Hist mutters under her nose. “Your face was hilarious the entire time.” 

“It was clearly meant to be a distraction,” Alistair pushes to turn his chair around slowly, chewing on his lip. He catches Ariste’s grin. 

“Don’t know about you, but I’d say it worked brilliantly, boss.”

“Oh, do shut up.” 

“How long have you been drooling after those two? If you’re sexually frustrated, I know someone,” Rivka interjects, and Alistair lets the case file drop on his face. 

“What have I told you about offering your Tamassaran’s services to _ everybody _within earshot?”

“I’m just saying,” Rivka crosses her arms defensively, “You could probably do with blowing off some steam.” 

“Can we please stop talking about the Inspector and blowing off in the same sentence,” Nathaniel says. “Last night was scarring enough.”

“You _ bas _ are weird and repressed.” 

“Hey,” Alistair snaps, “enough. Rivka, play the next floor up please, and if you mention your Tamassaran in my presence again I will assign you to night shift. Clear?”

“Whatever you say, boss,” she grumbles, and double clicks the next video file in the folder. 

An empty corridor, grainy. Sharp objects immersed in shadow. Alistair is _ so _ tired.

“According to the gallery log, it’s a traditional weapon’s exhibition waiting to be shuffled around for something else,” Ariste says, flipping a page in their file. “Nauticals, apparently. Lots of cool swords up there at the moment.” 

“And zero thieves,” Hist adds. 

“Wait,” Alistair interjects, leaning forward, and Rivka hits pause again. “There. Go back… yes. See it?”

The five of them lean toward the screen, squinting. Alistair points at a smudge that looks slightly different from all the other smudgy shadows around. 

“What’s the timestamp?”

“20:23,” Rivka says, “three minutes after the bathroom break, five minutes before Miss Elonie’s epic breakdown.” 

“How in the void would she get up there so fast?” Ariste reaches under Rivka’s arm, and hits play. The smudge moves, hits a spot of light, disappears again. 

“I don’t know boss, it doesn’t look like anything to me,” Hist frowns.

“Not to you, maybe,” Alistair says slowly, and follows the trail of light particles swooping after the shadow in a jagged line. 

“Ariste, please pull Circle records going back… say ten years.”

“Boss…?”

“Do it,” Alistair says, dropping the case file on Rivka’s desk. “Mysterious disappearance of phylacteries, sudden deaths, anything unusual. Ferelden first, then Orlais.” 

He ignores the look his team shares, and reaches for the cigarette box half-buried in his document organiser. 

“I need some air.”

-

Miss Elonie receives him and Hist with the kind of aristocratic condescension that would grate on anybody’s nerves, nevermind him and a casteless dwarf with severe authority issues.

Nothing to do but bear it, Alistair thinks, as he takes notes and watches over his partner’s seething anger, wishing fervently that he thought of an excuse to bring Ariste instead on time. 

“I’m not afraid of no rich bitch,” Hist announces back in the bullpen, rewarding Rivka’s snort with a flick on the horns. 

Rich bitch is about accurate, Alistair thinks as he formally bends over Dimitra Elonie’s bejewelled fingers, and he cannot help the curl of dislike that rises as he listens to her drawling report of last night’s events, the value of the necklace in question, and her thinly veiled opinion on the police and other lowlifes in general. 

He thinks of the article left on his desk, and wonders. 

By the time they’re done, a nerve is twitching on Hist’s jaw and Alistair is desperate for a nap, a cigarette, or perhaps a tropical holiday. 

“Fuck,” Hist says as she drops into the passenger seat. 

“Lovely woman,” Alistair says and inclines his head at Hist’s barking laugh, reaching back to the back seat and scrambling for the file half-spilled from the binder. “I have another stop to make,” he says, “but I can drop you off at the office first if you want to.”

“Templar Order,” Hist whistles as she leafs through the pages. “Did your Circle hunch lead to something?”

“Maybe.” 

“You might be better off taking Ariste on this one.” 

“I don’t think they’re particularly fond of the Templars either.”

“Neither are you,” Hist says, and Alistair frowns as he takes the next left. 

“You can stay in the lobby and glower at people,” he offers, and laughs when Hist brightens. 

Knight-Captain Rutherford turns out to be a twitchy man in his forties--thinning hair, gaunt cheeks, a nervous disposition. His office is cluttered with paperwork and old mugs of coffee, the Chantry sun banner almost obscured by a non-regulation bookshelf laden with dusty encyclopedias. 

“Inspector,” he clasps his hand in greeting, then dislodges a pile of folders from the chair by the desk, “please sit. I understand you have questions for me?”

“I’m wondering if you would help me identify someone,” Alistair says, sitting gingerly on the edge of the chair and opening his binder. “There were a few cases of phylacteries going missing a couple of years ago, and I might have found a connection between those and one of my active investigations. This is her,” he says, laying a grainy photo on the desk. Rutherford pinches the corner as he picks it up. 

“Oh.” 

“I take it you recognise her.”

Rutherford lets out a bitter chuckle, drags his fingers through his hair, then slides the photo back to Alistair and stands to face the bookshelf. 

“Iraine Valente,” he says, “Enchanter in Kinloch Hold, until seven years ago. Yes, I remember her.”

“Must have made quite an impression,” Alistair says, “I didn’t think you would remember every mage that crossed your doorstep.” 

“I was in active service at the time,” Rutherford says. “She cost me my position.” 

Alistair knows this, of course. Ariste is nothing if not thorough. The file is nothing if not stomach-turning. 

He remembers the Chantry-headered reports written in tiny type, the picture of a gaunt, starved-looking teenage girl, and swallows the urge to throw something at the Templar. It wasn’t exactly his fault either.

“I take it you haven’t had any contact with her since?”

“No,” Rutherford says, and he sounds tired. 

“You don’t happen to remember a man from Antiva hanging around her at the time?”

“Nothing for certain, I’m afraid.” 

Alistair nods, closes his binder, and tucks the picture of Iraine Surana into his jacket pocket. 

“Thank you, Knight-Captain,” he says, “you’ve been a great help.” 

Rutherford doesn’t turn around. His voice is quiet, hesitant. “Did she… is she well?”

Alistair leaves the room without a reply. 

-

“I could have met her,” Ariste says later, staring thoughtfully into their coffee cup. “Kinloch was a shit place in my time. It was worse, before.” 

Alistair waits to see if they flinch before he puts a hand on their shoulder and squeezes. Ariste leans in. Rivka looks over, worried, but stays put when Alistair shakes his head. 

-

“You visited Cullen.”

He chokes on cigarette smoke. Iraine Surana leans against the opposite side of the drainpipe, uncaring of the rain and the damp, and looks out into the alley--she looks deep in thought for somebody contemplating overflowing garbage bags, and Alistair appreciates the moment of quiet to collect himself. 

“This is a police precinct,” he says. A pair of dark eyes cut in his direction, then away. 

“I know. Why did you visit Cullen?”

“I wanted to see.”

“It’s all on record, if you know where to dig.” 

“I wanted to see _ him.” _

Iraine knocks her head against the drainpipe once, lightly. 

“It was a long time ago.”

“I could arrest you right now,” Alistair says, but doesn’t mean it. She must know. Her expression is gentle.

“You aren’t in the habit of persecuting apostates.”

“You don’t know me.” 

“Maybe,” she says, and reaches over to take his cigarette. He lets her. “But I know enough.”

“You know I dropped out of Templar training, you mean,” Alistair says bitterly. Iraine takes a long drag, eyes closed. 

“Nasty habit,” she says, handing back the cigarette. Her fingers brush against his knuckles, and Alistair sucks in a deep breath. 

“What are you doing here?” he asks instead of commenting, and she looks him in the eye for the first time--irises almost black in the low light, eyebrows drawn, narrow face framed by thick hair. Her ears twitch. 

“We left you a present,” she says, “on the corner of Gull Street and North Imperial. Blue door. Bring backup.” 

She turns and walks away before Alistair can say anything, blunt heels clip-clopping against the uneven road. The fog swallows her before she reaches the mouth of the alley. 

The corner of Gull and North Imperial turns out to be an old sawmill, gutted and abandoned years ago--it’s dark by the time they reach it, the hulking skeletons of old machinery casting deep shadows over the cavernous warehouse. 

“Damn,” Rivka says. Alistair plucks the blue sticky-note off the forehead of one of the unconscious men. 

_ Check my inside pocket, _ it says, and he shakes his head as he pulls open the goon’s black leather jacket. 

“Mother_ fuck,” _ Rivka adds, when she reads the check over his shoulder. 

_ D. J. E., Sunflower Housing, _ it says on the top printed row, and under it, a number. 

There are a lot of zeros. 

-

Commissioner Guerrin smiles pleasantly all the way through the interview, despite his twitching jaw--the five of them watch it on the grainy office TV, quiet as the news anchor asks question after question about the arrest of Dimitra and Erneste Elonie, the Denerim Police, the upcoming elections. Alistair chews his popcorn. Ariste is perched on Rivka’s lap, and for once nobody comments on it. 

“Good one,” Hist says, and grins. 

“Guerrin will make us eat dirt once the dust is settled,” Nathaniel grumbles from the corner and Alistair gives him a pained look, completely ineffective as Nathaniel grabs the bowl of popcorn off his lap without further comment. Hist glowers. 

“Fuck him,” she says, “we’re fucking heroes.” 

“I noticed a rather large sum of money landing in the bank account of one of the families,” Ariste says, “quite mysterious. They are using it to set up a fund. Blight victims. Re-housing. Very noble.”

“How large?” Alistair asks, fingering the fraying sleeve of his shirt. A button needs stitched back. He wonders if he has anything matching. 

“Oh I don’t know, about one diamond necklace’s worth,” Ariste says primly. Nathaniel rolls his eyes.

“Want to talk about it, boss?” Rivka peers at him over Ariste’s shoulder. 

“Do your paperwork,” Alistair says instead of answering, then pushes his chair back behind his desk and grabs his jacket. “I’m busy tonight.” 

“Please spare us the details,” Nathaniel says under his nose. Rivka dislodges herself from under Ariste, walks over and puts her hands on his shoulders with a smile. Her horns knock affectionately against his forehead. 

“I’m happy for you, you know,” she says. “Pining after criminals is a little unusual, I admit, but all is well if it ends well, yeah?”

“As long as we don’t have to watch him moon over CCTV stills ever again, I’m happy,” Hist says, mouth full of popcorn, and Alistair is suddenly awash with feeling. 

“They are good people, you know.” 

“Oh, please,” Hist gives him a sideways look. “ We love you too, boss. Now go before you start crying.”

The bar is called _ The Three Bearded Mabari, _ and it perches on a moderately seedy East-side street corner, lights on but unstaffed. The tables are empty. Candle flame dances on carefully wrapped cutlery, and the smell of cooking food wafts out of the kitchen as Alistair lets himself in, crumpling a blue sticky note into his jacket pocket. 

The writing says, in elegant cursive: _ West Road and Haven. We are waiting. _

Zevran Arainai, con artist, thief, stalks out of the kitchen carrying a glass dish. He pauses when he notices Alistair standing in the doorway, smiles, then saunters over as soon as he deposits his burden on the bar. 

“Evening, Inspector,” he says, and lifts his hand to cradle Alistair’s cheek. He sways under the sensation of his heart attempting to claw its way out of his chest. 

“Congratulations on the arrest,” Iraine says from the direction of the back room, and Alistair allows Zevran’s hand to slip to his shoulder as he turns to regard the apostate with a small sigh--she looks very different in leggings and a dark tunic, softer somehow, less dangerous. Her bangs are pinned back from her face with a series of hair clips. Her eyes turn into silver coins when the light hits them at the right angle, the candles a warm glow on her skin as she approaches slowly. 

“Dinner first?” Zevran asks. Alistair swallows as Iraine wraps her fingers around his wrist. She taps her lips with her other hand, then shakes her head. 

“I don’t think so.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! <3


End file.
